The Book of Humorous Verse. Various

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"God bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; nor try To make it—as the lucky fellow might— A close monopoly by patent-right! Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration;) But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off—Early Rising! "Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! The time for honest folks to be a-bed Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks! Thompson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season; But then he said it—lying—in his bed, At ten o'clock A.M.—the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake— Awake to duty, and awake to truth— But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin! So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!—it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!" John G. Saxe.

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL

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"Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa! "Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis! "Eo—Mio—Plio—whatsoe'er the 'cene' was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder— Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches— Tell us thy strange story! "Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures? "Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch? "Tell us of that scene—the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea— "When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And all around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls;— "Tell us of thy food—those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods au naturel— Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle. "Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation— Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence— Speak! thou oldest primate!" Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together. And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration: "Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!" Bret Harte.

ODE TO WORK IN SPRINGTIME

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Oh, would that working I might shun, From labour my connection sever, That I might do a bit—or none Whatever! That I might wander over hills, Establish friendship with a daisy, O'er pretty things like daffodils Go crazy! That I might at the heavens gaze, Concern myself with nothing weighty, Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days— Or eighty. Why can't I cease a slave to be, And taste existence beatific On some fair island, hid in the Pacific? Instead of sitting at a desk 'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking— Oh, say, what is there picturesque In working? But no!—to loaf were misery!— I love to work! Hang isles of coral! (To end this otherwise would be Immoral!) Thomas R. Ybarra.

OLD STUFF

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If I go to see the play, Of the story I am certain; Promptly it gets under way With the lifting of the curtain. Builded all that's said and done On the ancient recipe— 'Tis the same old Two and One: A and B in love with C. If I read the latest book, There's the mossy situation; One may confidently look For the trite triangulation. Old as time, but ever new, Seemingly, this tale of Three— Same old yarn of One and Two: A and C in love with B. If I cast my eyes around, Far and near and middle distance, Still the formula is found In our everyday existence. Everywhere I look I see— Fact or fiction, life or play— Still the little game of Three: B and C in love with A. While the ancient law fulfills, Myriad moons shall wane and wax. Jack must have his pair of Jills, Jill must have her pair of Jacks. Bert Leston Taylor.

TO MINERVA

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My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad— So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read— Then Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a Lark instead. Thomas Hood.

THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN

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Out rode from his wild, dark castle The terrible Heinz von Stein; He came to the door of a tavern And gazed on its swinging sign. He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine. Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, "O damosel mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein!" But she answered, "The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine!" Oh, then the bold knight was angry, And cursed both coarse and fine; And asked, "How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?" And fiercely he rode to the castle And sat himself down to dine; And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein. Charles Godfrey Leland.

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE

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